


Wrap me up ( in dreams and death )

by Niahara_Erskine



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Beekeper Bilbo, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Loosely inspired by Ladyhawke, M/M, Pre-Canon, Slightly skewed ages, Slightly skewed timeline, anthropomorphic dragon, fairytale AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 18:03:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12281694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niahara_Erskine/pseuds/Niahara_Erskine
Summary: His mother's death is, perhaps, the changing point, the turn that shapes a future he would have never envisioned. Not a Baggins way of life, neither a Took one, but perhaps a mix of the two, a twist of direction that will later place him in the path of magic and curses, of mighty Dwarf Kings and lore older than the very bones of the Shire, of dragons and death. A change that will lead him to love and loss, to sacrifice and betrayal, to hope and despair. A destiny he could never have envisioned, but one that he will never regret.( alternatively known as the Ladyhawke AU where only Thorin is cursed and Bilbo is a beekeeper more concerned with keeping his hive alive during winter than with magical nonsense that comes barrelling down his path )





	Wrap me up ( in dreams and death )

The moment his mother dies, her usually serene face etched forever with a soft smile as he lowers her into an untimely grave, Bilbo is faced with a conundrum. 

He could continue the life of a gentlehobbit, fall into patterns established for himself since youth, a life he had been neatly groomed for his entire life. Or, perhaps he could go the route of his rebellious mother as he had as a child, tracking mud across the floors and seeking the elves in the woods. Carving a life of adventure for himself in a community that deeply frowned upon such matters. 

But, as he watches the dirt fall onto the wooden coffin of his mother, as he remembers his departed father, beer-bellied and jovial even as Death claimed him, the still very young hobbit discovers he wants to follow neither of these paths. He is not a gentlehobbit like his father. But neither is he an adventurer like dear Beladonna Took. So in the end what is he? That is what he needed to find out...

The answer does not come swiftly. He spends long days sitting idly, blue eyes staring uselessly at each nook and cranny of his beloved Bag-End as if the dust motes and the shadows flickered by candles upon the walls would suddenly yield answers. The seasons change and spring turns to summer then to autumn; he feels like a ghost bereft of purpose, a weak shadow that had followed the light of others for so long that now, with their brilliance extinguished forever, his own existence had faded into nothingness.

His mother is gone. His father is gone. His cousins, all dear and jolly, are all remote, disconnected threads of a tapestry that he has no part in, his own weave different than their own. It is a hollow sort of existence, he knows, but as the answers keep eluding him, he becomes complacent, falls into his father's footsteps, an ill fitting mantle of five o'clock teas and walks through Bywater,  that leave him dissatisfied but occupy his time, that take him away from the silence and solitude of his burrow, but offer nothing of worth in return, merely idle chit-chat to fill his ears and chase away the loneliness.

It keeps on and on, an endless circle that might have otherwise continued, a fate promising to turn him into a perfect gentlehobbit, a bachelor of renown, the mask as fake as his own desire to become thus, a miserable existence that would have made him surly and bitter, attention offered to material things, to doilies and treasure boxes for there would have been nothing else of import for him merely the fraying threads of a past he was still reluctant to let go of. It would have continued thusly if, as the first autumn winds started blowing across the Shire and the first drops of chilly rain drenched the fertile soil, fate had not played its card.

He ventures farther than he had ever gone before, down the Budge Ford and towards Brockenborings, into North Farthing. The old hobbit tending to the bees startles him as he passes down the road. He seems scary, a bundled stout figurine cooing at insects that cannot even be seen, protected as they are in their nest. And still, Bilbo is entranced… The older hobbit never offers a last name, nothing more than a jolly laughed my name is Wido and an explanation that a gentlehobbit like Bilbo would not know a poor beekeeper like him.

The young hobbit's clothes betray him, he supposes, and the reality is not far from the truth. He knows farmer Maggot and his family, and Hamfast down the road preparing to become a mighty gardener like the hobbit he is learning the trade from. Farmer Cotton is another stark presence in Hobbiton, a red face and always sunny disposition clinging to him as tightly as his gaggle of children. But apart from them, Bilbo knows those from the old families, the Tooks and the Brandybucks he is related to, the Proudfoots and the Bagginses, the Hornblowers and the Bracegirdles. Not the everyday folk with their homes that are not burrowed in the Hill, tending to their crops with no gardeners to aid them and filling the markets all across the Shire.

A bee buzzes from the hive, a weak sort of noise that makes Wido start cooing at it again and Bilbo finds himself entranced, curious, a desire to learn and discover taking over him as nothing had since his mother had died. An awakening nagging at the back of his mind, an answer that he had been seeking and before he knows it he asks, nay begs Wido to teach him more.

And the older Hobbit does.

* * *

 

It takes years and it is hard; he gets stung a lot, enraging the bees without wanting to, poking at their hive in curiosity, handling the honeycombs a tad too clumsy for their liking. He cries a lot, loud hiccuping cries that leave his face red and snotty, tears drawing trails on the mud on his face, his hands swollen from the cuts and the stings, guilt and remorse keeping him tight in their grasp, his mishap a move that had led to a hive breaking down or to other destruction he had not wished to cause. Through it all Wido is nothing short of understanding, his large hand settling comfortably on his shoulder, his brown eyes solemn as they are understanding.

"Ay lad, life ain't without its hardship. Nor without its perils. They're not safe here, not more than in the wilds. Birds eat them. Frogs catch 'em over the lake. We make our silly mistakes. Trick is to never give up. They need us and we need 'em. Now wipe yer tears and stand up. Try again. They'll forgive ya sooner or later. No use crying for nuthin' now."

It takes years but he learns the trade, better than even Wido, learns to listen to the bees and discover what they need from him. Learns to coax them from their  suspicious disposition and earn their trust. Learns to make them his friends. And when he does, he returns to Hobbiton, buys a nice parcel of land close to Bag-End and starts his own hive, with help from the men of Bree.

"Unnatural" part of Hobbiton whispers, tongues clucking whenever Bilbo passes through the market, honey jars arranged neatly in a basket.  "Lost his parents as a wee lad. No one to steer him right and he does this." the Proudfoot matriarch grumbles, steering her children away, her green eyes peering distastefully at the still healing wounds on his hands.

"All that money and he does this. Why his poor old father would roll in his grave. A shame to the Baggins name," Lobelia snips, her husband shuffling awkwardly at her side, his gaze straying to the gleaming gold honey with hungry eyes. "All alone in that old home and instead of marrying a pretty young lass to fill it, he does this," one of her Bracegirdle cousins agrees, disgruntled dismay coating her words.

The hobbit in question stops, a frown etched on his features, eyebrows downturned as he stares at Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and Marigold Bracegirdle. A soft buzzing fills the air, the gentle thrum of bees that start migrating around him all of a sudden, one, two, three and then several more, a small swarm keeping a safe distance away from everyone, arranged in a tiny shield of protection around their master. "I do believe my father would have nothing to complain, Lobelia. After all he did love honey in his tea. Unlike your own, sour man that he was. Good day and goodbye." He waves her off with a careless gesture, his attention drawn back to the marketplace and the bees now subsiding around him.

That is not to say the entire Shire turns against him over night. His beekeeping habits are seen as a hobby, an eccentric one at that, but an innocent pastime activity. They do not make him any less of a gracious host whenever his relatives come to visit or any less of a capable negotiator whether he is on one side, or the other of the market. They simply makes him more, a fact that his cousin Drogo delights in pointing out.

“You are changed and many for the better, cousin Bilbo. You laugh more and even if I wouldn’t dare step foot around your bee hives after last time, it’s a good thing you’ve recovered after your ma’s passing. I’d go to Master Wido and thank him, but he frightens me so. Truly, he is scarier than Farmer Maggot.”

And Bilbo laughs, deep lines etched on his face from joy, blue eyes crinkling with amusement at the thought of anyone mistaking Wido for a scary presence. He laughs and then the goes to his hives, coos at the bees like his master before him and nurtures them, without stifling their independence. He spends time with the folk of Hobbiton, the common folk and the gentlefolk alike, learns to grow petunias from Hamfast Gamgee and offers Farmer Maggot a jar of honey in return for his fabled mushrooms, gives Farmer Cotton’s littlest one a honeycomb when he falls and slips Otho Sackville-Baggins honey cake when his wife is not watching.

* * *

 

Overall it is a quaint and happy sort of existence, one he would not have thought suited him, but he embraced thoroughly nonetheless. And for a while, all is well.

… Until the raven comes and threatens to ruin all.


End file.
